Not Your Average Father's Day Story
People tell me I share inappropriate stories with my kids and that I’m supposed to be their father and not their friend. I’m pretty sure the following post falls under the category What the hell did you tell them, Al?
It was Father’s Day two decades ago, and the kids and I decided to do a tour of the Jersey shore.
The plan was to start in Asbury Park, then work our way along the coast to Belmar, and end up in Point Pleasant for a late lunch.
In Asbury Park, as we walked the boardwalk, I got excited as we neared Convention Hall. I told the kids to follow me as I serpentined the boardwalk like Groucho Marx trying to find cell phone service.
I finally stopped.
“See this,” I pointed to the ground. “This is the exact spot where I was arrested!”
They must have wondered why I was smiling.
It was 1980, and a large group of my friends and I went to Asbury Park to see Ian Hunter at Convention Hall.
We split into two groups. Some had tickets closer to the stage, while others had seats near the back of the auditorium.
I was up front with about six of my friends. I am 6’2”, and at that time in my life, I had a group of friends where I was considered the short one.
This was that group. All except for my friend Pinhead, who stood about 5’4” but was someone I would want by my side in a fight any day.
As the lights went down and the cheers went up, my friend George, who was a few inches taller than me, stepped up onto his seat. Just then, the first few notes of Slaughter on Tenth Avenue could be heard, the curtain opened, and out stepped Ian Hunter.
That was the last thing I saw.
To my left, George was pushed down and crashed into the row of people in front of us. He was up in an instant and was on his attacker. Within seconds, the two rows were in battle. Fists flew blindly through the air, landing on friend and foe alike.
Through the melee, I spotted a sea of yellow-shirted bouncers descending upon our group. I was pulled toward the side aisle, and my shirt was nearly torn off my body.
My arms were pulled in different directions.
It took all my strength to keep my right index finger hooked around the bouncer’s finger currently trying to gouge my eye out.
Once in the aisle, and with three bouncers on me, I looked up to see the exit door open. A handful of police officers entered the building.
I thought, “Great, maybe they can get these assholes off me.”
They did, but not in the way I wanted. A few seconds later, my friends and I were handcuffed and marched down the boardwalk toward waiting police cars.
Once at the station, we were put in a small, concrete-walled cell where the stench of urine not only assaulted our senses but then pissed on them just for good measure.
The once-lone occupant of the room was passed out on the sticky, dark floor. We, of course, sang the traditional Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen while my friend John yelled through the door about his fourth, his fifth, and his nineteenth amendment rights (this had nothing to do with a woman’s right to vote, but he was on a roll).
One by one, we were taken from the cell to explain what happened. Then one by one, we were given tickets with a court date and told when to appear.
Apparently, the bouncers pressed charges against us. We told the police that we still had friends back at the concert. They were generous enough to give us a ride back.
That was a relief.
I found myself back in front of Convention Hall, in the exact same spot I would be in one day with my kids.
As I stood there, I could hear the muffled voice of Ian Hunter through the walls. I caught glimpses of the stage whenever the front door opened.
Unnoticed, someone stepped next to me.
I heard a voice ask, “What are you doing here?”
I turned to see a small man with a 1970s porn mustache who wore a tan Member’s Only jacket. I raised my hand to point at the theater, but before I could explain, he snapped a handcuff onto my wrist.
Within seconds, I was marched back down the boardwalk, hands cuffed behind my back. Pinhead saw what happened and asked, “What did you do?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said I had no idea, adding that someone needed to come and get me when the concert was over.
When I walked back into the police station, the officer who had just given us a ride, looked at me and laughed.
“Al, what the hell did you do?”
Again, I was at a loss for words.
It turned out the porn-mustache Member’s Only man was their Captain. He had witnessed the first arrest and assumed I had gone back to cause more trouble.
I was issued another ticket for the same court date, except this time it was the Captain who filed the complaint.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves in court. My friend John’s (my jailhouse-lawyer friend), father hired a lawyer and got his charges dropped. The bouncer who filed the complaint against me never showed up, so those charges were dropped.
All I had left was to ask pornstache if he would drop the charges against me as well.
After I groveled enough to his satisfaction, he agreed to drop the complaint.
My record was clear. Now I could honestly answer in future job interviews when asked if I had been convicted of a crime.
“Convicted? No, never.”
After I finished the story with the kids, and despite their confused looks about why I would smile when talking about being arrested, we continued our tour of the shore.
I wondered what story I’d tell them on the next Father’s Day...
...maybe take them down Route 35 and show them the parking lot where I lost my virginity.
